Flying

or something like it

In the vacant lot, in the winter, after the bush hog had tackled the tall grass and nothing there was green, the wind blew. The day was unseasonably warm. A steady breeze carried the afternoon toward dusk riding gusting pulses that knocked the unsuspecting jogger off balance and threatened to tip strollers. Our soccer ball had rolled through a pile of dog poop, so we sterilized and set off on a new adventure. 

The kite was shaped and colored like a rainbow. Each band ended with a streaming tail. Sensing the moment, the kite jumped and pulled as we climbed the hill. It was pushing its limits, holding the short string taut. 

Keeping an eye out for the stumps of brier bushes, we released the kite and let it ascend into the sky, fluttering and shaking, jittering and sputtering, vibrating the plastic reel that held its tether, releasing more string so that it appeared to attach to nothing, just a string pointing into space, clouds, infinity, and, totally separate from us, there was a hint of color, a fluttering dot with streamers riding the currents with the large scavenger birds, offering a visual counterpoint to the not quite full moon visible in the east that afternoon. The string was completely unspooled. 

A single tiny knot held the kite.  The wind pushed against our backs. The kite floated backlit against the swirling sky. We stood there. We held the spool with the tiny knot. We looked up. We paused. We held tight.

In Wordy Wordiness,

Walter